It’s not at all unusual to come across a table of men in Trentino huddled around a bottle of Müller-Thurgau or a similar white wine. Even as a millennial American who’s spent some time around wine, the scene still makes me smile.
Where I come from, wine is typically reserved for formal occasions, things like celebrations, dinners, dates. In casual settings, it’s beer or mixed drinks that signal camaraderie. But lately, beer in America has become every bit as complicated as beer drinkers imagined wine ever was. A “Gluten-Reduced West Coast Cold-Fermented Brett-Conditioned Brut IPA” is far more likely to earn a nod of approval than even a no fuss pét-nat.
With that shift, the idea that wine is inherently more intimidating, or less accessible, starts to feel much more arbitrary, a sort of cultural artifact rather than a real barrier. If we can decode obscure beer styles over brunch, why should a wine label feel daunting?
This question came to life for me during a recent episode of the Italian Wine Podcast. In episode 2317, Danielle Callegari — historian and wine writer — joined sommelier Megan de Angelo to discuss the psychological and cultural walls American consumers face with wine. Callegari described how much of that hesitation stems from unfamiliarity and a lack of confidence, not disinterest.
Danielle Callegari and Megan de Angelo at wine2wine Business Forum 2024
Wine, she argued, belongs back in a space of joy and play, not gatekeeping. And that idea resonated deeply.
I’ve been very lucky. I live in Italy, I’m surrounded by people for whom wine is simply a part of the table, I’ve taken WSET class in Verona. But even with that foundation, I’ve found myself joyfully experimenting with wine in perhaps an unexpected place: large language models.
Talking About Wine Without the Right Words
At a recent visit to a wine fair near Verona, I tried a very particular sparkling wine, a Metodo Classico Corvina Blanc de Noir, and was struck by a distinct toasted marshmallow note. It stuck with me. So later on I typed into a language model:
“I tried a metodo classico Corvina and something about it reminded me of a roasted marshmallow. What’s going on there?”
The answer came back with surprising nuance. It unpacked how yeast autolysis, light oxidative handling, and even the interplay of Maillard-adjacent reactions might be contributing to my impression. It noted Corvina’s tendency toward concentrated flavor, and how winemaking choices could accentuate toasty or creamy elements.
The response didn’t just give me answers, it opened a pathway. It pinpointed more wine typical language for a particular sensation that I perceived, something long ago and far away from the hills of Veneto. And more importantly, I didn’t have to begin with the “right” vocabulary beforehand to get there.
Reclaiming Wine’s Playful Side
This is where LLMs become surprisingly powerful tools for wine appreciation, especially for beginners. You can describe what you’re tasting, no matter how strange or subjective, and the model can translate it into recognizable wine concepts: varietals, production methods, terroir influence.
While traditional wine education often prioritizes memorizing grape varieties, appellations, and structure this flips the experience. It meets the consumer precisely where they are, with what they’re sensing right now and their particular way of expressing it. It’s possible to nerd out over soil types and fermentation or simply find the words and expressions that feel comfortable and natural.
There’s so much room for play. You can describe a wine’s aromas, mouthfeel, and finish in your own words and ask the model to guess the grape or region. Sometimes it’s spot on, or right in the ballpark. Sometimes it stumbles. If you ask about a Vermentino, it might confuse aspects of Tuscan expressions with those from Sardinia.
Detractors also note hallucinations in which a model can completely fabricate or misattribute information. However, the risk of outright fabrications is often overstated in practical, everyday use, especially when the user is providing concrete sensory input. LLMs are trained on vast datasets of both accurate information and the occasional misconception. They don’t invent out of thin air so much as remix what’s already been said and noted. They’re as reliable as the patterns, biases, and gaps embedded in that data.
The fact remains that there’s never been such an immersive, adaptable, and broad repertoire of “knowledge” about wine (about everything, really) readily available to the curious, regardless of their starting point. The real power isn’t in the LLM being a perfect oracle, but in its ability to be a flexible, on demand, conversational partner. And, at least at this point, it takes a human to enjoy the wine.
LLMs provide a fertile ground for low-stakes, playful trial and error. Does that Etna Rosso taste like “an antique book soaked in maraschino cherry”? Is the Alto Adige white “fresh-cut grass after a spring rain”? Are the tannins in your Aglianico del Vulture “silky” or “grippy”? There’s no pressure about being perfect. You’ll quickly discover what kinds of descriptions resonate most effectively with the model, and conversely, what kinds of responses from the model spark your own interest and understanding.
It also makes sense to play around with different models. Each has its own personality and style and they are continually being updated.
Opening Doors and Opening Bottles
Callegari noted well how jargon, intimidation, and the fear of being “wrong” can be barriers to wine and how more fundamentally it comes down to mismatches between perception and articulation. LLMs help bridge that gap by channeling confusion into curiosity.
They offer people ownership over their wine experience, building the confidence to trust their own palate and describe what they taste without needing to master sommelier-speak first.
And that, perhaps, is what I see in those men in Trentino. Not just tradition or regional pride, but comfort. A sense that wine belongs to them rather than to some institution, certification, or someone they imagine to be more knowledgeable.
With the right approach, more of us can feel that way, whether we’re choosing an expensive Fiano from a wine list or picking up a Montepulciano d’Abruzzo for a backyard barbecue. Because for the everyday consumer, as Callegari reminds us, wine shouldn’t be a quiz. It should be a natural, approachable conversation. And now, even if you’re not sure how to start it, you’ve got another place to bounce ideas.
Next time you open a bottle at home, try it out: take a sip, type out your impressions, and see where the conversation leads. After all, that marshmallow might just be the beginning.
Cin Cin!
Sean Kavanagh
